“I have seen her.”
“She shakes her head and makes eyes at me still. But so she would at an angel; a cross-grained old cockatoo!”
“Is she still at East Lynne?”
“Not she, indeed. There would be drawn battles between her and Mrs. Carlyle, if she were.”
A dart, as of an ice-bolt, seemed to arrest the blood in Lady Isabel’s veins.
“Mrs. Carlyle,” she faltered. “Who is Mrs. Carlyle?”
“Mr. Carlyle’s wife—who should she be?”
The rushing blood leaped on now fast and fiery.
“I did not know he had married again.”
“He has been married now—oh, getting on for fifteen months; a twelvemonth last June. I went to the church to see them married. Wasn’t there a cram! She looked beautiful that day.”